


How It's Done

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-typical language, Chorus Trilogy, Fluff, Gen, Reckless Driving, season 12, teen for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 15:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11255682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Grif and Simmons are on their way back to the New Republic’s base from a supply run, and Grif is beginning to regret letting Simmons drive the Warthog. Simmons is driving so slow, Grif would almost—almost—rather get out and walk.





	How It's Done

**Author's Note:**

> For RvB Fluff Week!

“I know how to drive!”

“I don’t think driving at the pace of a dying sloth and stopping at train tracks during car chases qualifies as good driving.”

Grif and Simmons are on their way back to the New Republic’s base from a supply run, and Grif is beginning to regret letting Simmons drive the Warthog. Simmons is driving so slow, Grif would almost— _almost_ —rather get out and walk.

“At least I drive within the parameters of the law,” Simmons huffs.

“Simmons, we’re in the middle of nowhere, caught up in yet another civil war, driving through abandoned cities that’ve been bombed to shit,” Grif says. “I think we left the ‘parameters of the law’ years ago.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Simmons says, slowing down as he passes over a small bump in the road. “With all this bullshit going on, I need structure.”

“Well can you find structure in a way that doesn’t end with me dying of old age on a Warthog?” Grif complains.

“Oh, shut up, Grif,” Simmons mumbles. He doesn’t speed up.

Five more agonizing minutes pass.

Grif groans and flops back into his seat, pulls his helmet off and chucks it into the back by the turret. Might as well make himself comfortable.

“What’re you doing?” Simmons cries. “You shouldn’t have your helmet off, it—it’s not safe!”

“Meh, we’re not going fast enough for there to be any real damage if you hit something,” Grif says.

“There could be enemy soldiers!” Simmons argues. “What if they start shooting at us and—and—”

“Simmons, if we get attacked by enemies, you’d probably get blown up when you stop at a stop sign. Not much a helmet can do at that point.”

“That’s not true!” Simmons protests.

“Oh yeah, Simmons?” Grif shifts in his seat so he’s facing Simmons, who doesn’t take his eyes off the road in front of him. “Then I dare you to run that stop sign.”

Grif doesn’t need Simmons to take off his helmet to know that the maroon soldier’s gone deathly pale, eyes widening in terror.

“Uh, sure, yeah, no problem,” Simmons squeaks. Grif crosses his arms.

“Then why are you slowing down?” he asks.

“I’m—I’m not!” Simmons lies. He’s slowed down considerably, with every intention of stopping.

“Jesus Christ,” Grif mutters, rolling his eyes.

With a huge sigh Grif grabs the steering wheel, takes his left leg and shoves Simmons’s right leg aside, and slams his foot on the gas.

“Grif _what the fuck are you doing_?!” Simmons yells as the Warthog roars forward.

“Showing you how it’s done!” Grif shouts over the thundering engine.

Simmons screams, the polka music blares, and Grif laughs as the Warthog careens forward. They rip through the stop sign, and then another. And another.

Within seconds they clear the ruined city and are power through the countryside. Simmons has stopped screaming but is still breathing hard, hands gripping the dash like it’s about to fly away.

“ _This_ ,” Grif shouts over at Simmons as they plow through a bush, “ _This_ is driving, Simmons!”

“ _Aaahh fuuuuuck youuuu_!” Simmons replies.

Grif throws his head back and laughs, relishing the wind as it stings his face, making his eyes water. His hair is all over the place, and he tries to remember the last time he had this much fun. It’s been a while.

“Grif, look out there’s a—”

Pressing the main gas pedal all the way down to the floor (Grif still isn’t sure why there are so many goddamn pedals), Grif jerks the steering wheel a bit to the left and heads right for the small mound of earth Simmons is pointing at.

They shoot up and over, catching quite a bit of air in one of the most badass moves—in Grif’s humble opinion—he has ever pulled off.

Grif lets out a yell, feels his stomach flip as the Warthog shoots up and then begins its descent.

Simmons howls and grabs onto the arm Grif is using to steer.

They land without a hitch. There’s a reason Sarge trusts Grif behind the wheel, though the stubborn ass will never admit it.

Grif hits the breaks and the Warthog grinds to a halt.

Heart pounding, Grif slumps over and settles back into his own seat. In the distance, he can see the base.

“See, Simmons,” Grif says. “ _That’s_ how you drive a Warthog.”

Simmons is shaking beside him, and at first Grif thinks the poor kiss-ass is crying. He feels a small pang of guilt and considers— _considers_ —apologizing.

But then Simmons lets out a snort and—and… is he _laughing_?

Grif is speechless and sits gaping at his companion for a good minute. When Simmons finally calms down, he turns to Grif and punches him in the shoulder.

“Hey!” Grif winces. Probably deserved that, but he’s sure as shit not apologizing now.

“You fu—you fucking _idiot_ ,” Simmons manages before dissolving into another fit of giggling.

Grif doesn’t think he’s heard Simmons laugh so much in… ever.

And Jesus Christ it’s freaking adorable.

Shaking his head, Grif shoots Simmons a grin.

“Admit it, you loved it,” he says.

“Did not,” Simmons retorts. He pauses, looks over his shoulder like someone’s listening, and adds, “Okay, maybe a little?”

“My job here is done, then,” Grif says, tucking his arms behind his head. “Carry on, Simmons, it’s nap time.”

Simmons takes the wheel and steps on the gas.

They don’t ramp off any more hills, but at least Simmons has graduated from dying sloth to regular sloth. And he even runs a stop sign when they get to base.

Grif turns on his side so Simmons can't see him smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you RiaTheDreamer for the prompt!-- "Fluff week: Grif teaching Simmons how to truly drive a Warthog."


End file.
